Never is the Best Time to Give Up
Growing up, I was convinced that there was a curse, condemning men in my family to accidental deaths before the age of 40 (it had held true for generations). While bargaining with God for extra years, I didn’t want to be greedy. My literary idol, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, had died at 61. That would give me time to make my mark on the world, and seemed eons away. Alright then...61. Having survived suicidal urges and heavy drinking in my late teens; a two pack a day cigarette habit and a chronic illness in my 20s; and major surgery and life upheaval in my 30s, I came roaring up to 40 with fire in my eyes, and damned if I didn’t cruise straight on through. Which was brilliant, since my writing career was just gathering steam. I had just published a couple of award-nominated stories and gotten into some cool anthologies, in the pages with some of my literary heroes. I was publishing and editing TransVersions, teaching a prestigious creative writing course and bei...